


Pay attention to the strangeness of the weather

by pollyrepeat



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Storm Chasing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-01
Updated: 2012-07-01
Packaged: 2017-11-08 22:27:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/448222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pollyrepeat/pseuds/pollyrepeat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur meets Mal and Dom Cobb in the middle of a storm and, Eames suspects, one of his more intense brooding sessions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pay attention to the strangeness of the weather

**Author's Note:**

> I started this _two years ago_ , and it remains pretty much the only story I ever wanted to tell in Inception fandom. In the middle of writing Avengers it reappeared and basically demanded to be finished, so here we are. Returning to your regularly scheduled superhero program soon.
> 
> I am nothing but an extremely amateur weather enthusiast. I'm certain there are a million mistakes; call it creative license. Title is, of course, an Inception quote. :P
> 
> Thanks AS USUAL to Jones, who reads my stuff even when she has no brain space left. Thanks also to Opalsong, for editing & keeping me company.

**Eames** grins, helplessly, can hardly stop himself from doing so while he shouts directions at Arthur over the roar of the wind and the rain and debris pummelling them from all sides; they are nestled snuggly in their very own little tin can of a van, barrelling down a gravel road at a hundred kilometres an hour, and there is nowhere Eames would rather be in the world.

This is of course the moment when something large slams into the driver's side window, shattering the glass and letting everything in after it. Arthur's entire body tenses up, rigid, holding onto the wheel with a death grip and mostly importantly not swerving off the road, but there is wind and hail coming in through that gaping window; somewhere out there is a rain-wrapped tornado that neither of them can spot or avoid.

"Arthur," Eames says, very quietly, which is to say he speaks at a normal volume and does not even try to make himself heard.

Arthur looks over anyway. Or maybe he was always looking, and Eames just hadn't noticed.

//

Arthur meets Mal and Dom Cobb in the middle of a storm and, Eames suspects, one of his more intense brooding sessions.

The story goes like this:

All Arthur has in the world is a rusted-out blue Chevy pickup that starts rolling as soon as you shift into drive without waiting for the gas pedal, a duffel bag full of slightly stale laundry, discharge papers, and a bum knee.

The bum knee means Arthur, usually perfectly content to stay put for long periods of time, is going slowly stir crazy in the mid-range motel room in the mid-sized town in the middle of the country where he's hiding from the world in general, and himself in particular. Nobody ever explicitly states this part, but Eames knows Arthur now, and he can infer it.

Feeling sorry for himself, Arthur does not return to the mid-range motel room after his afternoon PT session. The sky, a sickly greenish gray colour, suits his mood, and so he drives his run-down pickup truck further into the middle of nowhere, all alone under the ominous dome of the sky with nothing but staticky talk-radio for company. It starts to rain. It starts to hail. Eames can picture this in his head, Arthur in the truck, the wind screaming through a crack in the back window that he can't seem to force closed no matter how many times he tries.

And then the truck stalls.

According to the story, Arthur sits for a bit, ostensibly simply watching the storm, but Eames knows that he must have been feeling it sink into his bones; knows that he must have been arrested by the sight of a cloud like an anvil hanging in the sky, the uncertainty of the moment a hitch of trepidation and -- this is the important part -- excitement in his chest. This is the moment when he sees the tornado.

The truck won't start, and won't start, and won't start, and Arthur, recently dosed with a refresher in realism and the unfairness of the universe, is full of the resigned awareness that running will ultimately be an exercise in futility. He is in the process of easing himself out of the truck into the painful cacophony of the storm, probably looking for a ditch to lie flat in, when a van in what looks like full body armour comes barreling down the road toward him. When Eames tells this story, he uses this simile deliberately, sinking into Arthur's frame of reference. Full-body armour. The twister is an unreal, growing smudge against the horizon behind this van.

The van slams to a halt beside Arthur's truck, and the side door rolls open before it's stopped completely. A woman leans out, the wind whipping dark curls into a wild halo around her face. Arthur gapes. This is Mal, and she is used to this reaction.

"Foolish man!" she shouts. "Do you have a death wish?"

"No," Arthur shouts back. "My truck does."

"Well then come with us if you want to live," says Mal, who has a finely honed sense of the dramatic and also a penchant for quoting action movies, and holds out her hand.

//

**Arthur** gets the phone call on a Wednesday morning.

It starts out like any other day, which is to say Eames is working through a long list of names and numbers of local farmers, and making little tick marks and notes on a set of county maps he's comparing to some satellite images.

Arthur has squirreled himself away in the office next door, presumably working through the nine or so emails from Ariadne, their dedicated intern at the NSSL, sent between 1AM and 4AM with deteriorating spelling and increasing genius. She has big plans to improve the prediction model they've been using to track severe storms across the great state of Texas, and Eames is willing to bet that by the end of the season she won't still be an intern.

The office phone has been ringing on and off all morning as farmers return Eames' messages, and so when he hears the familiar _Bring!_ noise he automatically stretches his hand out before abruptly realizing that what he's hearing is Arthur's cell phone from the other room, muffled only slightly by the cardboard-thin walls. "Hey -" says Arthur's voice, then, " _What_?" and then there is silence.

Eames sits very still in his creaky chair, acknowledging the quick burst of adrenaline that's started to circulate through his system but refusing to do anything about it until he has a bit more information. He could go next door to check, but he knows from experience that Arthur has no compunctions against throwing things at people who interrupt personal phone calls, so for now, he waits, skin prickling as though the air pressure is changing.

His patience is rewarded a few moments later, when Arthur says, "Jesus," and "Okay." There's a noise like he's pushing himself out of his chair, and then Arthur rounds the corner into the office space Eames has claimed as his own and leans heavily against the door frame. His face is dangerously expressionless, as though he's shut down all non-essential functions. His cellphone is clutched in his hand in a white-knuckle grip.

"It's Mal," says Arthur.

//

Eames meets Mal and Dom Cobb in the middle of a bar brawl. This is also the night he meets Arthur, although at the time he doesn't know it.

The story goes like this:

Eames fucking _loves_ the United States of America, and he fucking _loves_ Texas, and by this he means that he is stuck here in Texas, in the United fucking States of America, and for the last week he has been trying out a person named Pete, slipping him on like a second skin and talking big and drinking big and gambling big, walking with his knees spread wide and his made-up heart pinned firmly to a flannel sleeve.

He has, in effect, crash-landed here, although when he tells this story he mostly says things like, "I came to see the cows, Ariadne; I love cows, the English ones just aren't the same," and sometimes, when Arthur is about, Eames wants to say something stupidly, ridiculously sentimental like _I was always supposed to end up in this room with you._

He doesn't, of course, although it may be why Arthur only ever fits into this story in the most tangential of ways, except perhaps when Eames is only telling it to himself. Arthur lurks on the edges of it; Arthur who is the serrated edge of a knife at the best of times; Arthur who takes all the air out of the room, though no one ever seems to notice but Eames.

In this story, Pete is belly-up at a pub, no, a bar, chatting with a man who looks almost as out of place as Eames would be, were he still being himself. Eames is surprised but pleased to notice that Pete is, in fact, chatting _up_ this man, and despite being in what is quite possibly the least liberal drinking hole in the entire city, Eames-as-Pete finds himself ushering this beautiful man further into the bar, one hand alternating between ghosting over the small of his back and touching lightly at his elbow; the man limps slightly, and the room is raucous, and despite the hint of steel at this stranger's core that Eames recognizes, like to like, he is solicitous and careful. He doesn't want him to fall.

Usually, when Eames tells this story, he skips right over this and says, "Well, I had exceedingly noisy sex with a man in an unlocked bathroom in a cowboy bar; I'm certain you can fill in the rest," and then grins, as wide as he can. Occasionally he accompanies this grin with an eyebrow-waggle.

"And then," asks his audience.

And then Mal beats up twenty, no, seventy-four people while Dom holds her coat and her drink, and after that she offers Eames a job, presumably on the basis of his right hook; he accepts graciously and drunkenly. The next morning he discovers Arthur in the Cobb’s kitchen and learns that Mal is, at heart, a troll.

//

**Things** fall apart after Dom -- well, after Dom.

The stupid thing is that it's not even storm season: three weeks before their next potential tornado, and Dominic Cobb drives the second storm chasing van, packed full of equipment, into the side of a train. He fell asleep, they say. It's so ridiculous and incomprehensibly awful that Eames is having trouble wrapping his head around it. Arthur is apparently not even going to make the attempt.

There is a funeral. Afterwards, they sit in Mal and Dom’s house and eat casseroles and fruit platters; the adorable children cry underneath the couch on which Eames and Yusuf and Arthur are sitting. Eames does not tell funeral stories, although he does tell stories at funerals. He does not want to think about children crying by his feet. Arthur is prickly and untouchable, pressed elbow-to-elbow with Eames; he matches Mal, who is distant and spends most of the time watching a horizon no one else can see.

She’s done chasing storms, she says. The children need her. Ariadne watches from the other side of the room; she has three duffel bags of belongings stacked along the wall of the guest room where everyone dropped their coats. She held Mal’s hand all day.

Arthur looks at Eames and says, carefully, "I think I'm done too." And Eames gets the impression that he means _everything_ ; not just the storms but the chasing Eames has been doing, slow and steady, ever since that first meeting in a bar. He thinks of Arthur’s fingers pressed into his hips, back to the wall; thinks of three years and maybe thirty adrenaline-high lapses in judgment that never amount to anything past a brief moment of mutual satisfaction. Three years of Eames circling closer and closer, a shark with all its teeth removed, all the blood in the water its own.

And Eames says, “Okay.”

One night soon after, Eames gets very drunk in the middle of a field while Yusuf click-click-clicks away on his camera beside him, both of them pointing their faces toward the stars in a clear sky. There is a breeze, a light one, that's carrying just a hint of the smell of rain.

"Will you stay?" Eames wonders.

Yusuf does not put his camera down, but the click of the shutter opening and closing pauses.

"Will you?" Yusuf says.

Eames shrugs, silent, in the darkness, but he thinks Yusuf must have somehow caught the gesture anyway, because he says, casually, "I hear that you've managed to clear up most of the fallout from that business a few years ago."

"Hmmm," Eames says, noncommittal, but Yusuf has been to the places Eames has been, often to take photos of the wreckage left behind, and if Yusuf thinks he’s clear, then he’s clear.

"You could go anywhere," Yusuf says. There is a rumble in the distance; it might be thunder, but then again, it could just be the freight railroad five clicks away, shifting cars about.

"Couldn't," Eames says, in a gust of breath. Not just anywhere. One place, which is a person. The alcohol is settled warm and comfortable in his stomach. Yusuf may have to carry him back to the car once he's done taking pictures, but Yusuf is a good friend and will only make him suffer a little for it.

"No," says Yusuf. He has heard most of Eames' stories. "I suppose not."

//

Yusuf shows up unexpectedly during Eames’ second storm chasing season, and, perhaps more unexpectedly yet, no one comes to kill either of them.

The story goes like this:

Yusuf is a photographer. He is one of the best, and he frequently finds himself in run-down buildings in the aftermath of things that should never have happened. These are accidents; Yusuf has a talent for finding himself in the wrong place at the right time, and taking a photo of it.

Yusuf has four pictures of Eames from four different countries from four different years; in his darkroom -- because digital is not for him and Eames has heard all the diatribes; Yusuf mixes his own chemicals and has a sure hand in the dark -- the fourth picture of Eames fades into full colour and Yusuf says, “Hmmm.”

He finds the other three photos; Eames lurks in the corners of global conflicts and localized terrors. Yusuf is curious, and he knows people, and so he pays for Eames’ name(s) in alcohol and the sort of chemicals that don’t develop photos. Sometimes, when telling this story, Eames says, solemnly, “my worth can be measured in kilograms of cocaine,” but Eames does not tell this story very often.

(He tells his story to Arthur exactly once, and Arthur says, “I _thought_ that was you.”)

Somewhere in a secure room in London, there is a file with his birth-name on it and an entire folder full of signed non-disclosure forms -- or maybe not. Eames’ running total is two deaths for his country, a new name and a new black ops division after each one, and one death for himself, to prevent the men who work for king and country from making it permanent. Blacklisting is no soldier’s friend.

Yusuf finds Eames by accident, again, but armed with Eames’ name he stops him just before he disappears from sight. Yusuf buys him a drink and succeeds in taking a photo in which Eames is in the foreground. He also succeeds in catching Eames’ attention: Eames is a connoisseur of people and Yusuf is endlessly fascinating, with his camera and his accidents and the way Eames only ever stumbles across his lines, which are never where Eames thinks they’ll be.

In this first meeting, Eames tells all sorts of lies that Yusuf disbelieves on principle, and occasionally Eames wonders if Yusuf knows that there were a few truths sprinkled among them. By the time the Trouble finds Eames, they have been friends, of sorts, for nearly two years, and when Eames gets out and goes to ground, Yusuf follows behind and helps cover his tracks, unasked.

He appears on a sunny day and interrupts Eames’ shouting match with Arthur. He’s come to take pictures of tornados and his references are flawless, because Eames helped him create them from scratch.

//

**Eames** is not fond of begging. This is a trait learned from years of experience. “We do good work,” he tells Arthur, because it’s not actually okay, and because Yusuf withheld post-hangover painkillers until Eames agreed to try. They’re at a pub, again. In the off season, he and Arthur have their most productive interactions against the bar, shoulder to shoulder; the only times they ever move in sync tend to be whilst screaming expletives at one another, setting up monitoring equipment and entirely certain the oncoming tornado is going to gobble them up together. “Why would you leave it? What are you going to do?”

Arthur shrugs, a motion that’s abrupt and inelegant. Arthur is frequently abrupt, but seldom inelegant in anything but his speech and his taste in alcohol and television.

“That’s not an answer, darling,” Eames prompts.

“Dom and Mal brought me into this,” Arthur says, at last. “Now they’re both out. It feels like -- it feels like it’s time to get out, too.”

“You were doing this for Mal and Dom?” Eames says. “Nothing for yourself?” Eames tells the story of Arthur’s first tornado nearly as many times as he tells the one about his own; for all the telling, though, it’s not his story. He is an unreliable narrator, which is no terrible thing, but he’s at one remove from the event. Maybe Arthur really was just watching the storm.

Arthur is quiet for a long time, and then he says, “Kiss me,” which is all wrong. They know each other; Eames is not Pete, Arthur has a name. There is no adrenaline rush. There is no storm outside. This is simultaneously a colossally good and a colossally bad decision, but Eames has always been very talented at choosing things which are, at their heart, colossally ridiculous.

“Okay,” he says, and leans forward. He takes Arthur’s chin in one hand, tilts it, places his other hand at the nape of Arthur’s neck. Arthur’s lips are warm and dry, and he opens his mouth to let Eames in, slow and thorough and far less desperate than their usual back-seat hook-ups -- but he pulls back almost immediately, looking spooked.

“Look, I - I’m not good at this -- _this_. People. Relationships,” Arthur says, drawing that last word out, like ripping a strip of duct-tape off your wrist slowly, in the hope that it’ll hurt less.

“And you think I am?” Eames asks, aghast. “Do you not know me at all?”

//

The first time he chases a tornado, Eames does not even come close to dying, but he does come down with an acute, ongoing case of poor Arthur-related decision-making.

The story goes like this:

Eames accepts a job offer in the middle of a crowded moment, back-to-back with a woman who introduces herself as _wrong_ , as _luckless_ , as Mal. “What kind of name is that for a Frenchwoman?” Eames wonders.

Mal and Dom Cobb chase storms. They’re scientists and mechanics and pseudo-engineers, and while other chasers pull over for the perfect camera shot, the Cobbs frantically deploy sensors they’ve made themselves. They have no time for photos, they claim. The lovely and prickly Arthur is the one who drives them and organizes them, and they’re looking for someone to network with the locals and do a whole assortment of miscellania.

Eames can do that.

Like Yusuf, the Cobbs and Arthur catch Eames’ attention; Mal is poised, hilarious, unreal and unrealistic, Dom a blank space by her side who flickers abruptly to life in moments of physical danger or mental exertion. Arthur is run-of-the-mill, an ordinary story that Eames has heard hundreds of times before he ever meets him, and it’s maddening, because Eames is not drawn to ordinary. Eames can’t not get ordinary out from under his skin, but here he is, in a truck that’s more than a bit shit, rolling toward a growing, fast-moving bank of rain-dark clouds, Arthur behind the wheel.

Mal is laughing over the radio in the other vehicle, her giggling a strange counterpoint to Arthur’s pointed, professional silence. “Look,” Eames says, prepared to clear the air re: one night stands, awkwardness thereof, but Dom shouts, “Look at these clouds! I’ve been waiting ten years for formation like that!”

“Radar looking promising,” Mal says. “Local news is reporting a tornado touched down, ten miles to the east of us.”

“Damage or casualties?” Arthur says.

“No, nothing; sirens are going, though --” Mal says, and breaks off, abruptly. “North, north, look north!”

“Ground circulation starting up,” Arthur confirms. “Can we make the intercept?”

“Of course we can,” Mal says, all confidence, and they do.

Eames doesn’t know the jargon, but he knows the adrenaline, oh, so very well. He clings to the granny handle as they bounce over three miles of bad road; presses his nose to the glass and stares as the swirl of dust and debris on the ground meets the spot in the sky where the clouds are churning. He throws himself out of the truck with Arthur, and helps Mal and Dom drag a box full of probes out of the back of the truck, helps set them up, lets Arthur shout “Now now now let’s go let’s go; get in the fucking car” at him.

Eames is soaked through, laughing, and Arthur is swearing up a storm but they’re both the same, windswept and gleeful. They drive through rain and curse their way through hail and then they’re out of immediate danger, parked on a gravel road, watching the tornado blow itself out.

“Well done, team,” Mal says, over the CB, and she and Dom drive off and Arthur crawls up into Eames’s lap and presses him against the window, and together they work off the leftover adrenaline.

The next day is precisely as awkward as the first was.

//

**Ariadne** kicks the office door open with her foot. Eames would say it’s because her arms are full of rolled-up maps, two laptops, and a tablet, but Ariadne occasionally goes around kicking in doors with empty hands and large smiles. “I like the looks on people’s faces when the door smashes open and I’m what’s standing there,” she says, early on in their -- acquaintanceship? team partnership? friendship? -- scribbling careful frowny faces in permanent marker on Arthur’s laptop bag.

Today, Ariadne demands, “Are you staying?" without bothering with hello.

"No," says Eames.

"Liar," says Ariadne.

"Arthur and Yusuf have gone, too. It's only you left, darling."

"No pet names," Ariadne mutters. It's an old argument. "Arthur is not gone. He's parked in his shitty pickup at the end of the street."

Eames does not get up to look out the window.

“Mother of god,” Ariadne says, and slams back out the door. She’s back in less than a minute. “You seriously think that?”

“To which thought are you referring,” Eames says. “I have so many.”

“That Arthur would really leave. He’s just as addicted as the rest of us.”

“Mal’s left,” Eames says.

“Mal will come back,” says Ariadne.

“Dom’s left,” Eames points out, because he is an asshole.

//

Mal finds Ariadne, like she finds Dom, like she finds Arthur, like she finds Eames. She likes to claim she found Yusuf, too, and they let this go without comment. Some things are not worth arguing.

The story goes like this:

Mal wanders into the office one day and says, “We need a weather genius,” and Dom says, “Okay,” and the two of them spend the next month lurking outside Mal’s father’s office until he loses his patience and introduces them to Ariadne.

“My best and brightest,” he says.

“I thought that was me,” Mal says.

According to the story, Ariadne takes one look at them and hand-writes a detailed analysis of the team’s last storm-chasing session, breaking down what they saw and where they went wrong by reading the radar and their instruments in a particular way, using footage that Eames uploaded to YouTube in an attempt to drum up additional funding.

Eames thinks probably there was an actual interview and possibly some reading of Ariadne’s graduate papers and evaluation of her prediction models, but Eames himself was hired in the midst of a bar brawl. The Cobbs, and Mal in particular, move in mysterious ways. However the story goes, Ariadne’s mind works in ways other people only dream of. Ariadne is tiny and steady and her brain is made up of bulldogs and terrifying maths and weather pattern analyses beyond normal human comprehension.

The part of the story that Eames seldom tells, if ever, is this: Ariadne hits it off with Mal and Dom immediately, in a way that makes Eames share baffled expressions with Arthur, a point of commonality between them that Eames tries hard not to enjoy overmuch.

She buys the Cobb children birthday presents and gets down on the carpet to play with them and is subsequently adored. She writes long emails to the Cobb parents. (Eames reads a sample once and only once, then exits out, feeling strange and bereft. He does not include its contents in any of his stories.) She spends the night and wanders into the kitchen for coffee and breakfast, pajama-clad and sleepy, while Arthur and Eames watch the Cobbs and Ariadne act as though this is all perfectly normal.

“You’re one to talk,” Ariadne says, when Eames tells her own story back to her.

//

**“There’s** a bruise on your face,” Arthur says, by way of greeting.

“Yes,” says Eames. “Well spotted.”

“Did you deserve it?”

“Yes,” says Eames. The rising bruise is only part one; part two, at Ariadne’s incensed insistence, is Eames out here, standing on the side of the road, talking to Arthur through the rolled-down window of his shitty truck. “There’s going to be some weather happening today.”

“I know,” says Arthur. The clouds are rolling in. Eames can feel the barometric pressure plummeting. Arthur watches Eames’ face, carefully, and then shifts. “Okay,” he says.

//

Five months after their first meeting, still trying to work out all the myriad ways in which they seem to rub each other the wrong way, Arthur and Eames come to an understanding.

The story goes like this:

A pub. Pressed up to the bar. Excessive drinking. More talking, beyond snark, than they usually do. Eames tells Arthur a story, and Arthur says, “I thought that was you. I was -- eight years ago. August. You remember?”

Eames is very drunk, but this memory is unfortunately vivid and does not take long to retrieve. “I remember.”

“We left people behind there,” Arthur says. “Six of them. Missing, presumed dead.”

“They died,” Eames says. He’s very certain.

“I wouldn’t leave you behind,” Arthur says. The jukebox behind them roars to life; raucous laughter from their brothers in drunkenness. Arthur shakes his head sharply, once, twice, like it will stop the noise, somehow. “Whatever we’re -- doing --” and they don’t talk about this; they never have -- “I wouldn’t. If something were to happen. Out there. Here. Chasing storms. Even if we -- I wouldn’t leave you behind.”

“That’s sentiment,” says Eames. “And not necessarily -- sometimes things just happen.”

“They do,” says Arthur, “but I still mean it.”

On the basis that neither of them will remember it in the morning, Eames says, “I mean it, too.”

They both remember it in the morning.

//

**“Arthur,”** Eames says, too quiet to be heard, but Arthur looks over anyway. Arthur puts the truck in park. He turns it off. They’re both bleeding now, and in about three minutes they’re going to achieve lift-off; Eames still can’t see the tornado, but not because it’s rainwrapped. He can’t see it because they’re about to be in it. He thinks: this would be funny if it weren’t so pathetic.

There’s a shape looming out of the gloom, screeching to a halt, and Arthur clearly realizes what it is a moment before Eames does; he grabs at Eames’s hand and yanks him out the driver’s side door after him. They tumble into the storm-chasing van -- the first one, the oldest one, the one that Arthur entered after accepting Mal’s hand. The most glorious tin can.

“Come with us,” says Ariadne, and closes the door after them. _Us_ is Mal, hitting the brakes that will hopefully keep the vehicle from spinning off into the storm; _us_ is Yusuf, clicking a picture of their faces and then breaking out the med-kit.

They sit, quiet and sweaty and gasping, as the wind picks up and the van rattles ominously in its resting place, hunkered low to the ground. This is the closest they have ever been; the outer edge of the tornado. On all previous close calls, there has been shouting and inappropriate laughter, but today they wait, silent. The five minutes it takes for the tornado to pass over them feels more like a memorial than Dom’s funeral ever did.

The van rattles less ominously. Mal says, “Next time, take appropriate equipment, hmm? That was very foolish.” She almost smiles. It’s closer than she’s gotten in a while.

Mal and Ariadne and Yusuf drop the two of them off outside Arthur’s motel. Eames gets out after him without protest, without prompting.

“Seven AM tomorrow,” Mal says over her shoulder. “Don’t be late. We have so much to do!” The door slides shut behind them. The van lumbers down the street, dropping off bits of mud and grit behind it. Eames stands, breathes, and feels more calm and collected in Arthur’s presence than he has since that first night, in the bar, before he’d known anything at all. Eames is done with desperation. Next chapter.

Arthur looks at Eames, then at his motel door, then back at Eames.

He says, “Would you like to come in?”


End file.
